The Little Men Who Lived in the Mountain

     When I think back on my childhood now I don't hardly remember being in school. I never think of my friends or my lessons, of trudging through snow in the winter or splashing through puddles in the spring, or stomping on piles of leaves in the fall. My childhood happened in the summer, on my grandfather's farm and the mountains that butted up to the property.

     And the older I get the more I wonder about what was real and what was my imagination - the difference was rarely so stark back then, and never of much importance. I was always an imaginative kid and maybe that explains why I saw what I saw in those woods. Or maybe I was an imaginative kid because of what I saw. I don't actually know how old I was the night the little men came to visit.

     I remember every year as the school year was drawing to an end I would always pester Dad to read me stories of magic and escape. Every night he would fill my head with stories where  magical realms of unbounded imagination were hidden in cupboards and wardrobes and rabbit holes. By the time school let up and I was shipped off to Grampa's Farm I was ready to believe that all a kid had to do was wander a short way into the woods behind the farmhouse to find a fawn or a talking horse or magical beings of even stranger kinds.

     Grampa would take me out into the woods to teach me to hunt and fish. I never caught many fish because I would ride around using the fishing pole like a witch's broom. Who wants to kill a fish anyways? In my imagination they were happy there, spending all those hot summer days swimming in the most magical stream in the world. I felt the same way when Grampa taught me to shoot a pellet gun. He wanted to set me loose shooting gophers in the fields, like my cousins did when they were there. I found that I was far too busy fending off the attacking swarms of goblins who had their mines in those mountains and only came down to steal children and force them to work in the mines.

     And yet I can't remember ever actually believing in the goblins. I never feared them, despite the apparent danger of being enslaved to work the mines. I remember what they looked like, or what I thought they looked like, with their eye patches and glistening daggers in their mouths and dripping drool. But I never thought to imagine what they smelled like. I do remember what the little men smelled like, and I'll never forget it. It was a musky scent, a bit like Grampa after a long day in the fields, before his shower. And a strong scent of tobacco smoke that clung to their beards. And of course I remember especially the iron smell of blood.

     I remember right before they came I was seated at the kitchen table eating muffins or cookies or something while my grandparents looked on. Gramma always said she loved having me around so she could bake for someone who wasn't diabetic. I remember Grampa promised once I was finished he would take me out onto the porch and show me the constellations. There came an urgent knocking on the door, which Grampa didn't like because nobody ever knocked on that door. I couldn't see who it was when he opened the door, nor could I hear their quiet conversation. They seemed to talk for a long time and then my father stepped aside.

     I saw the little man then, and heard him say with a thick accent "Our deepest thanks," which sounded like such a strange way to say that.

     The man turned out into the night and called out to his friends. "Leave them, leave them, we are guests. In the bushes. We enter with open palms."

     Then the held his hands up to show my Grampa, palms up, before stepping into the home. Behind him came man after man, each of them showing Grampa their palms and bowing their heads, saying "deepest thanks" and entering. Once inside they each became busy, rushing around so that I couldn't keep track of them. I saw them clear the kitchen table in an instant, carrying the dishes to the sink. Two of the strangers gestured at the sink bickering. They bickered for only a moment before one approached Granma and said, "Dearest Madame, gracious hostess..."

     I don't know what he said after that because another man approached me. With the gentlest touch on my elbow, he led me away a few steps away, turning me away from the door. That was when I realized that the man was no taller than me, and neither were the others. I suppose it made perfect sense to me that a man might be shorter than Grampa and even Gramma, so I hadn't even noticed that these men were only half their size. This one looked like the others, with a long black beard and long black hair braided beautifully - I remember thinking that I wanted them to braid my hair the same way, and for years afterwards I would only wear my hair in braids. He had a large nose and eyes as black as coal. His face was smudged with ash and dirt, with lines where beads of sweat had run down. His clothing was made of thick layers of leather and furs - patchworks of different furs, with at least four different skunk pelts in his outfit. The other men were dressed in deer and wolves and squirrels and bears and probably elk and everything else that lived in those mountains. Sometimes even the antlers and teeth were incorporated into their clothing. The layers of leather were covered with pockets, pockets everywhere, with maps and compasses and trinkets and square bottles of colored liquids. When the man's outermost cloak was swept aside I saw an empty scabbard and no fewer than three canteens swishing with the last of their water. I noticed too that they all wore jewelry, more than any woman I knew. Each of them wore a crystal pendant around his neck, each one a different color. They all had rings, and some had earings and bracelets and brooches on their cloaks. Above all they seemed to prize intricate details, especially finely wrought runes and sygils. Nowadays I have to think how hard that kind of work must be with thick, stubby fingers.

     When the man spoke to me his accent reminded me of when my cousins had watched an eighties action movie and spent a week speaking exclusively in bad Russian accents. In my childish head, it made sense that these men must be Russian and that's why they seemed so strange. He said to me, "Purest Princess, deadly marksman, deepest thanks for hospitality." I remember spending the rest of my childhood thinking that the way these men spoke was the best possible way to speak, and trying to imitate them as best I could, even the way they stopped to think before coming up with English words. I don't remember it exactly, but everything they said had a rhythm to it, like everything they said was a poem even when they were struggling with the language.

     "For show our thanks, may I kiss her hand?" He held up my hand in his own. I think their hands were their strangest features. Their fingers were stubby and thick. Sometimes remembering them I think they must have been missing a knuckle, they were so short. And they were callused like no hands I've ever seen. I don't think those men would have needed to wear gloves for any kind of work. They were filthy too, and as a child I assumed that must have been what they were showing Grandpa when they came inside, although it never made sense why they would want to show how filthy they were to someone they just met.

     In answer to his question, I nodded my head, and he placed a quick dry kiss on my hand. Nobody had ever called me a princess and kissed my hand before. Or called me a deadly marksman, for that matter. I suppose a show of gallantry was all it took to win my trust back then.

     He spoke again saying, "Purest Princess, our friend is..." He looked over my shoulder and growled musically deep in his throat, speaking a language that might have evolved from men clearing their throats. His friends answered in English. One called out, "Sick," and another said, "No no no, wounded."

     The one dressed in skunks continued speaking: "Our dearest friend is sick and wounded. He is, let me think... pierced of tooth. Yes, our dearest brother is wounded, pierced of the tooth. May we... borrow... may we borrow the table of the house?"

     "Of course," I said, not understanding a word of what he said. And because it seemed to be the appropriate thing to, I curtseyed, holding my imaginary skirts in my hands. As silly a thing to do as it was, it clearly pleased the man, and he answered by saying, "Graceful manners, purest princess." And the others all seemed to approve, as though I had done a worthy thing.

     "You saw me shooting?" I said. He nodded.

     "What shot you? No... what did you shot?"

     "Goblins," I said.

     He cried out, barking in his throat, although it seemed like a happy sound. Two others came over to kiss my hand. "Work worth the doing," one of them said. "Filthy pirates, wretched slavers," said the other. I wanted to tell them it was just a game, but I was too shy. I don't think that mattered to them. They each had a watery twinkle in their black eyes.

     When I turned around, the room was different. Most of the men were gathered around the kitchen table. A hide had been laid out on the table and a man lay on top of that. The men around him fussed with him, and I saw tears in their eyes and blood on their hands. Others were washing dishes in the sink. Another couple were sweeping and mopping with my Grandma's broom and mop. Soon all traces of the mud the dwarves had tracked in would be gone, as would the trail of blood leading from the door to the table.

     At the time I didn't understand what the man in skunk fur had done for me. I assumed he had turned me away just so he could kiss the hand of a beautiful princess. Now I recognize that he didn't want me to see a bloody man carried through the door. He wanted to prepare me before I saw it. Throughout that night they proved themselves to be such noble beings. I can't help but admire the presence of mind of a man who, while his friend lays dying, thinks first to ensure his brother's suffering does not offend the innocence of a child.

     I remember being so afraid of the blood and not wanting to go near the injured man. The man with skunks in his cloak took me gently by the elbow and led me closer. I saw so much blood coming out of his hip. More blood than a child of that age should see, although everyone present seemed to think it was important that I see.

     "What happened to him?" I whispered.

     "Grimi Hardhand, mountain wander, tunnel digging, treasure seeker treasure finder, serpent slayer serpent bitten."

     "Mountain climber, tunnel digger."

     "Mmmmghghgh, yes."

     "Serpent slayer serpent bitten. Fury frozen, pain and blood, pain and blood, retreat attack, dwarven valor vict'ry won."

     Their funny, rhythmic, repetitive way of speaking was confusing at first, but as the night went on it began to make more sense. Even as they explained to me what had happened they were composing together a kind of poem about their wounded friend. Sometimes they spoke over each other, revising each other's lines. Perhaps they were composing his eulogy.

     Some of the little men washed the wounded one's face and hands, so that he was the only clean one among them. I noticed another tuning an instrument that I thought might be a kind of violin.  Another had something like a flute. All the men who weren't otherwise busy had a hand laid on the wounded man.

     "Is the serpent dead?" I asked.

     One among them drew himself up taller, and the others looked proudly at him, nodding.

     The wounded man turned his head towards me and said, weakly, "Who?"

     Then the man with skunks in his cloak placed a hand on my shoulder. "Purest princess, goblin hunter, graceful manners."

     I curtseyed once more, again holding my imaginary skirts in each hand. They laughed  from deep in their chests.

     Gramma offered cinnamon rolls to our guests, embarassed that there weren't enough for everybody. The strange men divided them up between themselves, insisting that I have an entire one for myself. I tried to refuse because I'd already had a couple and really didn't want anymore but they were so insistent. I took a bite of my cinnamon roll and it was like a starting gun went off. The men devoured their portions to the last crumb. They ate as though they hadn't eaten in days.

     The wounded man, the only other who was given a full portion, nursed his, eating only a few bites. He raised his head and said, weakly, "Mistress baker, pastry maker..."

     "Dearest madame, gracious hostess," someone else said.

     The wounded man tried to speak, struggled to find the words, and continued on in the gutteral language the men all spoke. The leader leaned over him, listening to the soft words, then straightened to address Gramma.

     "Dearest madame, mistress baker, gracious hostess, pastry maker - Grimi Hardhands, serpent slayer wishes me to speak on his behalf. He... is sorry --"

     "Regrets."

     "Yes. He regrets he cannot make his own speech to you. He offers deepest thanks for your hospitality. He praises your pastry, and compares it to his own Chali's... not cake but..."

     "Buns."

     "I think cake is right."

     "No no no. Scones."

     "Yes, I think so. Scones."

     "He said that he would as soon have your pastries for a..." The leader choked up for a moment. Tears welled up in many eyes, and rolled unchecked down his cheeks. "He would as soon, for his final meal, enjoy these your lovely pastries as his own Chali's scones."

     For an uncomfortable stretch of time, all was quiet, and many of the men wiped tears from their filthy faces. Then the leader said, "Oh, my manners, my manners."

     A canteen appeared on the table, and many more in the hands of the strangers. One of the men placed two of Grandma's mugs on the table, into which the leader of this strange band poured a shot of dark liquor from a canteen. He gave one cup to Grandpa and took the other for himself. Raising it high, he said, "Deepest thanks for hospitality given." He drank, and all the others passed their canteens around to each other. Grandpa drank his shot, practically choking on it, gasping for air. Our guests laughed and all shook his hand one by one. While the handshaking was going on, one of the men helped the wounded man to drink long and deep from a canteen.

     The man with skunk furs put a hand on my shoulder and turned me around facing away from the table. "Purest princess," he said, "like you jewelry?"

     I didn't at that age, but I didn't want to seem like a little kid so I pretended to like jewelry. He showed me several of the rings that adorned his fingers, all of them so big they would have slipped off Grandpa's thumb. I've never in my life seen another ring like the ones he wore. They were thick bands of yellow gold, with layers of latticework carved into them, so that each layer lay behind another depicting scenes and figures that must have been rich in mythological significance. They displayed a level of craftsmanship I have never seen since.

     And yet, as marvelous as the rings were, I found I was more fascinated by the man's hands. The fingers were no longer than mine were, yet thicker than I thought fingers could be, and all the same thickness so that the same ring would fit both the thumb and the littlest finger. The palms were the most incredible though, to my little eyes, a hard mass of callous. I remember at that age comparing my own hands to Grampa's, and thinking that no man in the world worked harder than Grampa, and he could prove it by the callouses on his palms. Compared to these men, my Grampa's hands might as well have been as soft as my own. And filthy, sweaty, grimy, greasy - many of them were sticky with dried blood as well. The ring which the man dressed in skunk skins showed me became filthy the moment he handled it, and he dug through his pockets to find a clean cloth to polish it in spit, bringing it to fine shine before replacing it on his finger.

     Afterwards he turned me back to the others. The wounded man was covered in fresh blood, more than ever before. I wondered that he could still be alive. A man was pressing a deep red cloth into his hip. Another man was wiping sweat from the wounded man's face, and as soon as the sweat was wiped away it appeared again on his brow. He still had the leather bound hilt of a sheathed knife between his teeth. He hissed around it, eyes clenched tightly shut. Yet another man held a red fang, larger than both his hands together, dripping crimson onto the floor. He wrapped the gigantic tooth in a cloth that absorbed the deep red color as quickly as it was wrapped. I noticed one man wielding Gramma's mop, snaking it around people's feet, trying to clean the bloody mess as quickly as it was made. Every man that wasn't otherwise occupied had a hand on the wounded man's body, a tender touch on every leg and arm.

     The man's breathing calmed, the tooth was hidden away under a cloak, and the music began. There was a flute and a violin and some other instruments, but the predominating sound was of drumming. Many of our guests had gotten their hands on Gramma's pots to hammer a rhythm into them. I was worried that they would break them. The singing was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. It was only then that I really recognized what deep voices those men all had. It was the kind of singing that comes rumbling from deep in the chest. And meanwhile some of them were -- I don't know how to explain it -- almost barking, punctuating the pounding rhythm with quick throaty growls.

     Once I heard their music I understood the reason for the funny rhythms of their speech. Every word of English they had spoken that night, talking over and correcting each other, they were composing a poem, a poem suited to the rhythms of their alien sounding music. Most of their songs were in their own language, but while the words were meaningless to me, the music itself, as foreign as it was, could not be misunderstood. They sang of sadness, of hardship, and then of strength and even more of pride. When they sang of glory, they all drew near and placed a hand on their bleeding friend. I don't think you could understand the music just by hearing it; to really get it you have to see the men who sing it. It's like how there's gospel music and then there's gospel music in an enthusiastic black church. It was the same with them. They were the shortest men I've ever seen, but when they sang their songs of dwarvish pride, they gave such an impression of tallness  that I don't think I've seen in any ordinary man. And when they sang of pain and loss, one by one their powerful rumbling low voices broke with emotion, and one by one they stood on a chair to lean over their friend and kiss his forehead, each of them with their tears dripping onto him. When Gramma broke down in tears, one of the men placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her his handkerchief. Even Grampa dabbed at his eyes, which I've never seen from him before or since.

     Three times they returned to the song they composed in English, and each time it was a little improved. They told the story of Grimi's bravery and of their mission on the mountain, and they mentioned Grampa, Gramma, and me according to the nicknames they had given us. They sang of Gramma's cooking and hospitality, of my perfect manners and training to shoot goblins, and they sang about Grampa's work ethic and courage, praising him for farming in the shadow of such a mountain (hardy farmer, brave soil tiller). I believe they repeated some of their songs in their own language too, and I think they did so for the same reason, that they were refining them. Their dirty, sometimes bloodied faces showed such incredible weariness, both physical and emotional exhaustion, and yet I got the sense that they would not rest until they had crafted the perfect musical testament to their fallen friend. They were nothing if not perfectionists.

     At some point that night, poor Grimi squeezed the leader's hand, held in his own all night. The leader looked at him questioningly, and the man nodded. The leader then turned to a pair of men who looked so tired they might have been sleeping with their eyes open. Even so, at a nod from the leader the two jumped up from their chairs and hurried out the front door. Where they went I didn't know until later.

     By the time the singing stopped, Gramma and Grampa were asleep in their chairs, wrapped in blankets by our guests. I was so sleepy myself that it took me a while to understand why the music was done. Each of them took their turn to kiss their friend one last time. His forehead was wet with their tears. I turned to the man with the skunk cape to ask if Grimi was dead. I saw the answer in his eyes before I asked. They wrapped him in the fur on which he laid and carried him outside, all but one who followed along with Gramma's mop to clean up the blood and mud. My friend escorted me outside with them. We went out to Gramma's garden, to the grave dug by the two who'd gone out earlier.

     The men laid the body down and said their last prayers. I don't think normal men can make tears as large and heavy as the tears these men cried. They passed the shovel around, taking their turns in burying him.

     I have a vague recollection of drifting off as I was carried up to bed. The next day I jumped out of bed and ran out to find my new friends. Grampa was so tired he wasn't working that day, just drinking coffee. He explained that our guests had left before first light. I asked when they were coming back, and he said that he didn't think they were ever coming back. He said that their leader had asked him not to speak of this night to anyone, and Grampa told me that we were all three of us going to honor that.

     The only other time he mentioned that night was when he said that he knew they borrowed his shovel because it was the only clean tool in his shed. Likewise Gramma was so embarassed that not only had all the dishes been washed and dried and put away, but she could tell even the mugs at the back of the cupboard that never got used had all been dusted.

     Aside from that, we never really spoke of them again. Any time I mentioned them, Grampa just said we made a promise to them and that was all. Gramma planted lilacs on Grimi's grave because she'd been told they were his favorite. And every year at about the same time gold coins would appear under the lilacs, coins stamped with runes like none that exist in any books.

     Every summer after that I practiced shooting goblins with Grampa's pellet gun, and then his rifle as I got older, and every time I hoped that a tiny little man would emerge from the forest to commend my shooting and call me "perfect princess, goblin killer." It never happened. Then again maybe none of it ever happened.

     By the time I went to college I had convinced myself that none of it ever happened. At that age I was trying my hardest to rid myself of the image of the nerdy girl with shelves of books about dragons. I convinced myself that it was all just the product of an overactive imagination. Anymore I don't care if people think I'm crazy or not. Anymore I don't know if I believe it or don't.

     I still visit my cousins on the farm from time to time. They're okay. I just like being on the farm. I walk in the woods and remember my childhood. Sometimes I find snakes in the woods. Grampa taught me they were garter snakes, completely harmless. I kill them them just in case and leave the bodies under the lilacs. For Grimi.


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Blood Eaters